


a vessel, shaped

by Madame la Problématique (callmearcturus)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (its a single moment but wanna cover my bases), Altered Mental States, Corruption, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Living Clothing, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Graphic Violence, Orgasm Control, Other, Possession, Posture Control, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24906238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/Madame%20la%20Probl%C3%A9matique
Summary: Set in S1.With his new position as Head Archivist, Jon gets a new apartment. Then, of course, he needs new furniture for his new apartment.Jon finds a ring in a locked drawer of an antique endtable. It fits him perfectly. Maybe too perfectly: it won't come back off.Then, things getweird.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Everyone, Jonathan Sims/Spooky Living Clothes, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 76
Kudos: 335





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY THERE. This is another Weird Niche Porn Fic! If you want a full summary of what's going to happen in this story, check the end notes!
> 
> Thanks for the TMA Writers' server for enabling this. I'm unsure if y'all want your names attached to this, it's a Weird One. XD

All Jon had wanted was a decent end table for his new apartment. Since he'd taken on the Head Archivist role, there was a decent increase in his pay, enough to justify a new place. It was closer to work, which was nice, but also smaller, which was acceptable. It had been a long time since Jon had needed space for another person in his life.

Also the new apartment allowed cats, which was very exciting. Not right now, as Jon was settling into his role, but once some of the… stress of the new position had faded, then certainly.

The point was, Jon needed a decent place to put his glasses and water and books at night, so he was spending his day off trawling through the antique stores, hoping for something nice, but not expensive. He'd even retrieved a small fold of money from the ATM to ensure he wouldn't overspend.

The store he was pecking through was in dire need of better lighting, at least a third of the tubes overhead faded or broken. This, in his opinion, boded well for the search; a more run down shop probably wasn't taking too much of a profit off the top, if they couldn't afford new fluorescent tubes.

There were old electronics (including some rather niche games he would have gotten very excited about if he were still sixteen), a lot of old books (nothing that looked terribly impressive, the place had probably already been picked clean by collectors), and a truly extensive collection of intricately glass-blown clowns (no thank you). All the usually detritus that an antique shop was contractually obligated to accept, like the unwanted kittens of the interior design world.

There were, thankfully, a selection of short tables and drawers that were worth browsing. Jon turned his body at angles to walk between the entirely too narrow paths made by the furniture, tiptoed and bracing himself to keep from falling.

A smear of dust remained on his hand. Sighing, he tried to blow it away, then impotently patted his hands together to clear the worst of it away.

There were plenty of dated and terrible pieces to wiggle past before he found the one he liked. Immediately, it felt good to him; a very dark stained wood, a locked top drawer, no visible water stains, and what he hoped was genuine brass hinges and knobs. He liked it immediately.

As he bothered the shop clerk (who seemed to be the only person on duty right now) to unearth the squat little table, he explained the benefits of brass fittings, how they acted as a natural antibacterial barrier, and that was why they patina'ed so swiftly.

Jon thought it was interesting. The clerk didn't seem as enthralled.

"We don't got the key to it," they told him brusquely.

That was disappointing. "You don't have a, a thing, a narrow metal bit to…" The clerk gave him a flat look. "Well, I'll see to it myself once I get it home."

Out of curiosity, Jon shook the table. Something inside rattled, but it sounded very small, bouncing off the angles.

It was probably the key, with his luck.

Getting it home required a very sympathetic cab driver, but was infinitely better than the alternative. The very idea of carrying the heavy wood down into the underground was harrowing to consider. Instead, Jon was dropped off by his new building, and tipped the cabbie extravagantly for the trouble.

The ordeal took the entire day, but Jon chose to think of it as worthwhile. The dark wood looked very stately next to his bed.

There was the matter of the drawer. He really wanted that lock. There wasn't even anything Jon thought of as so valuable he needed to hide it, but having the possibility available had its own allure to it.

So he put on the news in the other room, cranking the volume a tad so he could listen as he sat in front of the end table with a butterknife, a longish nail file, a few unfolded bobby pins, and his phone open to a page with helpful pictures of how to pick a lock.

He sincerely doubted that an antique drawer lock would be complicated. The nail file slid into the lock, and worked well enough as a handle to start to pull the keyhole to the side as he did his best to push the pins up with his hair pins.

Three pins later, and the locked turned, and Jon let out a crow of delight. It was eminently satisfying to pull off.

Pulling the drawer free, Jon found a brass key (perfect) and a ring.

The key he moved to safety outside the drawer. The ring was cool between his fingers as he examined it. It seemed very simple, a gleaming metal that seemed equidistant between gold and silver. So white gold, perhaps? He had no idea, but the surface was beautifully whorled with curves and lines that brought to mind the inside of a tree.

He slipped it on his finger. It fit his middle finger immediately.

A little too well. As Jon put away his improvised lockpicking tools, he tugged at the ring. It slid up to his second knuckle and refused to move beyond it.

Sitting on the sofa, Jon watched the news while gamely attempting to take off the ring. Before long, his attention slipped, and he left it there, adorning his hand. After all, it wasn't hurting anything, and when he looked at it, his gaze would often slide off to focus on anything else.

He forgot about it.

* * *

Like a deep frost slowly beginning to thaw, the ring woke as it nestled in against the warmth of a living thing.

These things took time.

* * *

Faced with the reality of his new position, Jon knew he had a tremendous amount of work to do.

The former archivist had left the records in a terrible state, for a while, Jon had literally no idea where to start. For a while, he simply looked through the boxes of files, sometimes sorting an individual box by date. But then it was a singular microcosm of what could eventually be a sense of order. In truth… fuck, what was he supposed to _do?_

For the first time, he had people answering to him. He was head of department now, and there was no one to go to, to ask for a plan of attack.

He sat in his office, looking at the new, so far empty file cabinets he intended to fill with sorted files. Gnawing his lower lip, he reached down and spun the ring around his finger idly.

To hell with it, he'd digitize everything. Putting things into order in a cabinet? Pain the the arse. Hitting a button to sort by statement giver name or statement date on his computer? Easy, beautiful, elegant.

With a plan in mind, Jon's anxiety ebbed, thankfully releasing him as he opened a new document file and started to outline a standard operating procedure to share with his team.

* * *

Movement stirred it further awake as it took in an awareness of the world, one built of sensation.

The ring had another vessel. That was true.

The vessel was alive. That was true.

They had a somewhat erratic heartbeat. Tension and worry thrummed through them as they moved and curled their fingers and did their work. The ring could feel the spikes of anxiety from its throne around the vessel's right hand.

Some things were eternal, however; when they were upset, when their hands were idle, they always returned to giving the ring simple attention. Their fingerprints lingered on the ring's surface with every anxious spin.

The ring was so relieved to have a vessel who needed protection. This was what it was here to do.

Unfortunately, while it felt the steady heat of life withing it, there was dry cool air around it. It wouldn't do to be caught in its work. So, it waited.

All vessels had to sleep eventually.

* * *

There was so much to do, doubly so now that Jon had created a plan to work with. As he passed out copies of the new archival Standard Operating Procedure, Sasha had seemed skeptical, her attention on the page arch and foreboding in a way that made Jon fold his arms behind his back, fingers pressing into the ring on his finger to idly turn it.

He had to prove this would work. So, he wound up staying later than everyone, trying to make some headway on the plan. He brought in a laptop (he could requisition a work computer later if he wasn't sacked in a month) and got to work.

Martin scanned papers for him, and Jon grouped them as needed, adding metadata, willing this to _work,_ to be a hard, necessary turn for the archives.

It also meant he stayed late, later than anybody.

By the time he staggered into his apartment, Jon was drenched in exhaustion. Remembering to lock the door was an ordeal, and he whined softly as he retreated to the entryway to slide the chain in place.

After that, he shuffled to the sofa, abandoning his shoes.

He needed sleep. He had a bed just one room away.

It was one room too far. Jon sank onto the sofa, toed off his shoes, and fell over. Even with only a throw pillow shoved under his head, he was asleep in moments.

* * *

This is what the ring was waiting for. Finally, its vessel was still and quiet, their blood settling into the languid pump of slumber.

With every spin of the ring on that finger, more tension and excess energy was siphoned away. It was plenty to start with.

The strands were thin and light, extending out from the ring to explore the dry, warm human skin around it. They crept silently over the back of the vessel's hands, stretching cautiously to find the hard bone of his wrist. There was the perfect point to secure, spinning and weaving more strands until the completed a band around the vessel's wrist.

As they slept on, it spun more threads, opalescent and invisible under the dim light from the window. Across the palm ran more threads, and outward, wrapping around more of their fingers.

It took all night, the work meticulous and exploratory. In the end, an illusory fingerless glove stretched from the ring, the ring that was now the start of something more.

As the vessel slept on, it flexed, pulling on its disparate lines, and felt how the vessel's hand bent in response.

It was perfect.

There was so much more work to come.

* * *

Some of the statements were refusing to be digitized and Jon was doing his best to be as calm and professional about that as possible.

 _Why_ there weren't obediently recording to the laptop, Jon didn't know. He didn't _want_ to know, either, as the idea filled him with dread.

Because the thing was, the statements that resisted the digital microphone were… odd. They got under his skin in ways he didn't like. And nothing felt worse than having to re-record one of them because the audio file dissolved further into static as the statement went on.

It was… eerie.

Jon cupped his face with a palm and rubbed idly at his skin, trying to keep himself under control. The last thing he needed was for— for Tim or Sasha to ask him about the statements that resisted the process. If he implied there was something the matter, then…

They might know how out of his depths Jon truly felt.

Closing his eyes, Jon pushed his glasses aside and covered his eyes with his palm. Sitting there in the dark, his skin smooth against his face, was helping. It did something.

He'd need another solution. Another way to record.

God, he might have to ask Martin of all people. Martin, who wouldn't gossip and who might know of a method that was a little more… analog.

Dragging the tension out of his face, Jon sat up and breathed. He could do this.

* * *

The vessel's cheeks were a little rough with prickly stubble as they dragged their finely meshed glove against their face. Underneath, their jaw was nice, their skin was smooth.

The ring looked forward to touching it more, but for now, the vessel was asleep, sprawled across their bed in a boneless mass of limbs.

The poor thing was exhausted every day, their life grinding them down. They were of great fortune, to come across the ring before so casually endangering the tender components that made their body.

The ring could at least do something about the trouble.

As they slept soundly through the night, more threads began to tentatively grow, stretching gossamer filament upward. There was the incredibly vulnerable span of their inner arm, the decadently soft skin covering the fact of their pulse. The ring-turned-glove-turning-more pulled lines over that tender spot, and spun the lines together, forming another pearly mesh under the cover of night.

The path upward, under the soft flannel material of their pajamas, was a long one, and the vessel's heartrate slowly increased as they began to traverse the sand-soaked path back to the waking world.

As they licked their lips and began to stir, the threads pulled, tightening, the loose mesh coming together into a solid layer of silk.

Just as it finished, the vessel rolled over and rubbed their face. In moments they were rubbing their neck, letting out a low, drowsy hum at the sensation.

* * *

The array of recorders that Martin sets out over the desk all share a few characteristics. They are all heavy plastic, the sort that isn't used much anymore, that feels like it could survive being run over by a lorry. They are all adorned with weirdly satisfying buttons that made loud cli-unk noises. And they were all devoid of packaging and showed some signs of wear.

"There— there weren't any at any of the stores I checked. Actually, the clerk at Maplins had a laugh about me even asking," Martin said, his voice that tense gripped fist of nervousness. "So I tried some antique shops, and lucked out, I think?"

Jon picked up one of the recorders, a smaller one that fit in his hand just barely. "It's amazing what you'll find in an antique shop," Jon murmured. "They all function?"

"Yeah, yep! I checked them all." Martin smiled sunnily. His face had a round softness to it that seemed out of place in the dour academia of the archives. "Going to start with the, ah, the Watts file?"

"It's a longshot that this even works." Jon clicked the buttons, from the rewind to play to pause all the way down to the red record button, where his thumb lingered. "Tapes?"

"I have tapes! I bought a box of them! If this works then, maybe then I'll— I'll buy some more."

"Make sure you keep the receipts," Jon intoned, and took the box as Martin handed it over. "Take the other recorders, make sure they're available to the pool."

"Sure, sure." There was that smile again before Martin picked up the rest of his antiquated AV haul and left, shutting the door behind him.

The breath went out of Jon all at once. Progress. As he pulled the Watts file closer, Jon rested his cheek in his hand. His good hand.

It was all the long hours he was pulling in, working to make a serviceable system on the computer. The cramp in his right arm started it seemed like under his shoulder blade, like he was smuggling a pebble under there, and twinged all the way down to his thumb as he rotated it around. What was particularly vexing was his left arm was fine. Actually it was loose and limber to such a degree he felt almost lopsided.

Reaching over, he tried to massage his aching hand, pulling the fingers one by one backward to stretch them. He could _feel_ the tension down his forearm.

He couldn't sit there forever. There was work to be done. Probably another late night for him again.

At least while he read the statement to the tape recorder, he could keep trying to press some of the knots out of his arm. His palm skated smoothly up and down his skin.

* * *

The ring eagerly waited for the vessel to return to their home and to give into some relaxation.

This part, it knew, was paramount. It had fully sheathed one arm, but there was another still wild. More than once, a vessel had gone feral too soon and forced the ring free. Once, the ring had held on too tight, and a knife had been involved. It still remembered the terrible agony of the vessel, the pain it felt as they cut the finger loose.

And it remembered the end of its awareness as the digit bled out.

This vessel would be different. They were less astute, for one. Through their days, they stroked their hand against the silk, spun the ring in moments of anxiety, unthinkingly pouring more attention into the weave.

Now, in the quiet of the night, the vessel laid their head back against the sofa and dropped into a deep, calm sleep, like a stone into a pond, faltering and falling after two skips.

The thread raced across their back, speed over beauty for this singular important moment. Finding the junction of their shoulder, it looped threads around, drawing into position. Braiding a loose band there, the spread continued, encompassing their bicep, down to the wrist.

It had just managed to secure a hold on the wrist, with an extra loop around the thumb for safety, when the vessel stirred and woke suddenly.

The ring did not understand fear, but it stilled in anticipation. This was too soon, the threads were haphazard and loose, not thick enough to force the issue yet, to tighten the mesh to seal shut.

However, it was very late at night. All the vessel did was go attend to their teeth before wandering to bed, flopping gracelessly onto their back with their arms draped around their head, one hand tucked under the pillow.

And then, they were asleep again.

The weave continued. It threaded through each finger, coated the palm, filled out the shape of the sleeve. As the boundaries were pushed and taken, the threads retraced and thickened until it was time, and everything pulled together. Taut, laid flat to the skin, the other arm sealed safely.

The vessel's arms enveloped, it pulled slowly down, testing the grip. Together, their arms bent, shoulders drawing down. Then, back up, pushing them against the bed until the vessel's back arched slightly. Not enough to jostle them from their sleep, but testing.

Pleased with their slumbering carrier, the weave settled in to indulgently repair the hurried stretch of threads that spanned their back, between the shoulders. The opal panels widened, filled out into something delicate and impenetrable.

And between the shoulder blades, the silk reworked itself, loops and points coming together to form an ornate filigree. For now, a secret. Someday, a beautiful emblem pressed to the vessel's skin, demanding admiration and attention.

* * *

Tentatively, Jon thought he was making this work.

As of yet, he wasn't sure to do about the taped statements. They refused to be added to his new catalog thus far, but at least he could separate them out and sequester them into their own file cabinet, getting them out of the way as he continued to work through the archives.

But there always seemed to be more boxes. More file boxes with more files with more papers to read through. Mostly absolute drek that was wasting his time.

However, it did give him a break from the more stubborn statements.

Speaking of, Sasha found him in the stacks, trying to divine which of these boxes _wouldn't_ require a tape recorder to process. She brandished a sheaf of papers at him, at the same time reaching out to turn him with a light hand on his forearm. "Weird one here, mentions that Gerard guy, I think?"

Jon turned, bending his neck to look at the page. "By name?"

"Well, no," Sasha admitted. "But there's a man with poorly dyed black hair who really wants a book."

"I didn't think Leitners were widely known," Jon remarked, taking the statement from her hands to start skimming through the pages. "Have you tried to digitize it?"

"Yeah, nothing but static." She gave him a thin smile, and her hand ran slowly along his arm to his wrist, her fingers gliding over his skin.

He shivered, and Sasha's hand whipped back. "Oh. Oh my god, uh," she said, pained.

"Sasha—"

"I don't know what came over me, I'm so sorry." She put her arms behind her back, face flushed. "That was inappropriate. I just, this is not an excuse by any means, but you have very smooth skin? Oh no, that's not better," she finished, expression agonized.

"It's not, no," Jon said. "But, I think we can let this slide? Mutually?"

"Thank you. It won't happen again. Really sorry." Backing up, she shot him a tense smile, and vanished beyond the stacks.

Right. Jon took the new statement and retreated to his office, reaching down to rub his arm where she'd touched it.

It felt warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you like a full heads up on this fic? Here's the Full Spoilers summary, plug it into [rot13](https://rot13.com/) for a peek!
> 
> _Wba trgf n zntvp evat gung fybjyl jencf uvz hc va n fcbbxl vzcrargenoyr fvyx. Gur evat unf rabhtu bs n pbafpvbhfarff gb unir n qrfver gb shyyl rapnfr Wba, naq riraghnyyl qbrf fb. Gur evat vf cbjrerq/shryrq ol culfvpny pbagnpg, jvgu uvture naq uvture culfvpny qrznaqf bs Wba nf vg pbngf uvf obql. Riraghnyyl vg shfrf gb uvf obql va n zber creznarag jnl naq znxrf uvz vaperqvoyl fxva uhatel, vapyhqvat frk. Vg nyfb qbrf jrveq fcbbxl fuvg yvxr pbagebyf uvf cbfgher naq funcrf uvf obql (vapyhqvat rffragvnyyl ercynpvat uvf ovaqre). Wba qbrfa'g trg serrq sebz gur evat'f pbageby, ohg ur'f nyfb qrsvavgryl arire tbvat gb orpbzr gur Nepuvir, fb fyvtugyl yrff bs n Onq Raq guna pnaba???_
> 
> listen sometimes you just gotta write a weird spooky erotic thing???? yeah


	2. Chapter 2

The weave didn't know excitement, but again: anticipation.

This time, it was not a stillness born of the possibility of being ripped and torn and parted from the vessel's body. That threshold was behind it, and now the time for caution was passed.

As the vessel moved and went about their work, the threads slowly intertwined. It was more gradual now, taking the energy of the day and channeling it into more loops and links, slowly pushing the edges further and further. But there was no need to rush through the vessel's sporadic sleeping periods.

Under their clothes, the weave continued its acquisition, marveling at that expanse of their chest, the curve of the ribs.

Expansion took energy, and the weave knew want in the way few creatures did. It _wanted_ to continue on, to wrap its vessel in unyielding gossamer. But it grew hungry.

The sleeves of its arms were not formless; there were threads like steel wire, and a seam that began at the vessel's wrist and lead all the way up to their back.

There were strings to pull.

* * *

It was all due to how overtired Jon was. The late nights were catching up to him. And he'd yet to inform the team of his rather unorthodox hours at the Institute, in the hopes no one would… worry? No, they wouldn't worry. But they could interfere.

That all seemed auxiliary when Jon stumbled sharply into Tim. He didn't know what tripped him up, only that something startled him, like something had landed on his back. But there was nothing there.

Just Jon half off his feet with Tim letting out a shocked "whoa, boss!" as he caught Jon by the arms, going down to one knee as he kept Jon from slamming into the floor. "Jesus, you alright?"

The position was awkward, and Jon took a moment to get his feet back under him. As he straightened, Tim rose with him, his eyebrows lifted, his aloof expression not _quite_ covering his concern.

"I— sorry, loose board," Jon managed. His hands clenched in Tim's shirtsleeves. "That, that was a fine catch, Tim, thank you."

This was the part where he was meant to let go, make a show of dusting himself off, and continuing with his work. But for the moment, his hands didn't want to uncurl from the grip they had on Tim.

The brightness faded from Tim's face as he took in Jon's tense posture. "Hey," he said, much quieter this time. "For real, are you alright?" He moved his legs shoulder-width apart and reaffirmed his grip on Jon, as it preparing to catch him out of another fall.

It was a little mortifying, but also Jon couldn't coax himself to let go. Which probably was some heretofore unknown side effect of working on low sleep. Clearing his throat, Jon said, "I, well, I feel momentarily dizzy, I think."

"Okay. Well, however long momentarily is, I got you," Tim said, and squeezed. His hands were wide, long fingered, and Jon felt each one as they braced him.

As Tim's grip slid, his fingertips pressed into Jon's shoulder blades. The sensation of being supported was foreign and strange, and Jon's eyes nearly shut from the wash of relief it gave him. "Right. Thank you, Tim."

As he stood there, there were footsteps, and a sharp gasp. Which meant someone else was there, but Jon could barely dredge his mind out of the feeling of pressure and weight against his skin, how _lush_ it felt. He felt? Where was that sensation coming from?

"Martin," Tim said suddenly. "Bring that chair over, will you?"

There was a dragging sound. A chair, presumably. "What, what _happened,_ is he okay? Should we call someone?"

"And down, just straight back, Jon," Tim said, and guided Jon to sit. The chair was in place for him to slump into.

And if he sank into it a little more heavily that strictly necessary, that was fine. The last thing he needed was for his assistants to suspect…

What? What was he worried about? Jon lifted a hand and stroked it through his hair. "No calls, please. I…" He released a great sigh. "I would prefer to keep this quiet, but I— I have been working a few late nights in the archives. Just to help transition, settle in."

Martin stepped into his view, and his hand gently moved Jon back against the chair, as if worried he'd fall sideways off the thing. "Settle in? It's been over a month, is that necessary still?"

"Perhaps not," Jon said sullenly.

"No, it's not," Tim countered, his palm rubbing up and down Jon's shoulder.

"Your concern is admirable, but I am a grown man," Jon pointed out.

"Your protest is noted," Tim said, in a vague assumption of Jon's own tone, "but I just caught you out of a collapse. You're going home at five on the dot, boss."

Next to him, Martin nodded along, no doubt bolstered by having a technical majority against Jon.

He reluctantly agreed to leave on time, and to not take any work home with him. Only then did they both back up and let their hands slip from Jon.

As the door shut behind them, Jon's face fell, bereft and adrift in the wake of _whatever the hell that was._

* * *

The weave continued.

Flush with simmering energy, the weave wrapped its wings around the clavicle of the vessel as they sat in their comfiest chair, dozing and reading and dozing again. There was enough power to levy against the expanse of skin that needed claiming. And in the privacy of their own home, the vessel removed their tighter clothes, including the taut vest they habitually wore. It had sat so close to their flesh, the threads could not press underneath.

In the evening, the vessel breathed deeply, their skin accessible without the vest in the way. In its wake, the weave could feel what was underneath, a faint swell that was clearly a source of annoyance.

Never let it be said the ring-turned-weave did not exist to please. The threads continued down the vessel's chest, feeling the steady beat of their heart, enveloping that. The edge of their ribs, too sharp, needing softening, enveloped next. The tender dip of their navel, enveloped in the same soft mesh as it danced down their body, eager to reach another point to anchor.

As it splayed its grasp out across the vessel's chest, it rested before the slight curve of their hips. Here, it doubled back on itself, strengthening the silk, building panels. Here, the core of the carrier, was key, and the weave worked until it laid _perfect_ against them.

Then, the threads tightened, and the bodice sealed, the seams tight, the planes of opal uncreased and flawless.

Under it, the vessel inhaled, exhaled, lived, sewn into the protection of the weave. And the weave did not know happiness, but it knew the satisfaction of its purpose being fulfilled, inch by inch.

And still many more to go.

* * *

For all of his terrible sleep hygiene, when Jon did drag himself to bed, he slept wonderfully. Long and deep, as if the new course of his life suited him well.

It reminded him vaguely of being younger, when he was lucky enough to own a heavy blanket, and the peace it gave him from his nightmares.

He hadn't thought his bedding had enough weight to it to pull off the sensation, but somehow that feeling of pressure coaxed him to sleep each night. It could have been a fluke, it could have been pure _nostalgia_ filling Jon's mind, tricking him into a restful night. Regardless, he'd take it.

In the morning, he showered until the hot water ran out. It was becoming a bad habit, but long showers were a luxury he refused to forfeit. After his hair was conditioned, he let it soak in, and spent a ridiculous amount of time just standing under the water and running his hands over his muscles, his shoulders. The water sluicing over him gave him the phantom sensation of smoothness. The feeling under his fingers was amazing.

Eyes mostly closed, Jon buffed the back of his fingers against his chest, aimless and drenched in hot water.

When the stream finally threatened to cool, he rinsed his hair out and went to dry and get ready for the day.

Moving primarily by muscle memory, Jon dressed, already thinking ahead to the file box of statements he was working on. He was half-finished adding them into the computer, and it was frankly a slog. All of them recorded to his laptop, no static, no data loss, nothing.

And thus, he couldn't help but think they were wasting his time.

Scowling, Jon laced his shoes before getting up and grabbing his jacket.

It was then, standing there and reaching, Jon realized he hadn't put his binder on.

But he could see himself in the mirror mounted on the back of his bathroom door. Standing properly, he frowned at his reflection.

He looked… good. He turned, and examined himself further. He took a deep breath.

Yes, he looked very good. He ran one hand down his chest, confused.

Then, his watch alarm went off. If he didn't leave now, he would be late. Cursing in a terse tone, Jon grabbed his bag and hurried out the door.

* * *

The vessel would learn of their purpose soon. It was soon to be unavoidable, even for one so distracted as their current carrier.

So, the weave worked to make itself lovely. The silk nipped itself in strategically as it paid attention to how the vessel moved. In key places, the threads thickened to describe whorls through the fabric, imparting texture and a rippling pattern across the vessel, accentuating their body.

The weave made itself to suit the vessel, as it would make the vessel to suit the weave in return.

As it spun lace filigree, delicate and ornate, along the seams and edges, it listened deeper to its wearer. The two of them would be together for quite some time, and it was only reasonable to learn about each other.

Gradually, it learned: the vessel was Jonathan Sims, and the weave did not understand affection, but it held him tight in its embrace.

* * *

He couldn't get it out of his mind. Through the day, Jon periodically stood up just to pace around his office, taking deep breaths and reveling in how his shoulders and chest moved each time. It almost made his fingers and nose tingle, a sense of strangeness that hovered around him through the day.

As he took a turn around the desk and was idly smoothing down the lines of his sweatervest when Martin timidly let himself in. His arms were full, some files under one and a mug held in his hand. "Jon, hi."

"Martin," Jon greeted evenly. "Another statement refusing to cooperate?"

"Yeah, tried it twice." He held it out to Jon, who took it, glanced at the cover sheet, and set it on his desk.

"I'll take care of it, thank you."

"I, uh, I also… thought you might like tea?" Now, Martin offered the mug (which was adorned with a print of _Starry Night_ ) to Jon. When Jon didn't immediately take it, thrown by the gesture, he went on quickly, "I, ah, I actually try to make tea for everyone. It's a good way to remember to stretch your legs, but, well, your door's usually closed, so."

Oh. The knowledge that beyond his door, the rest of the team had tea breaks did do something to his heart. Swallowing, he reached out and took the mug.

"I tried two sugars and a splash of soy?" Martin went on. "I can get you more sugar if you need."

Curling his hands against the mug, Jon half-expected it to be too hot to hold. It was fine, and he tipped the mug for a sip. A nice, classic breakfast black. It needed a little more milk to offset the bitterness, but the taste was bracing. "It's fine," Jon said.

Martin nodded slowly, but his eyes were lower, looking at the mug. No, at Jon's _hands_ as he said, "That's a very pretty ring," in a light, almost breathless voice.

Ring. Jon frowned and turned his hand over.

Sure enough, on his middle finger was a glint of metal. Rather belatedly, he remembered it. "Oh. That's right. I found it in an old end table."

Gingerly, Martin took Jon's hand, a loose grip on his fingers, tilting it down to have a better look. His hand was warm, his index finger brushing Jon's palm in a way that made Jon's entire body clench, a soft exhale escaping his mouth.

Gripping him, Jon pulled, and Martin stepped closer, his other hand resting on Jon's hip. Which was too low, he needed to touch higher. Jon's spine curved slightly, his body brushing Martin's.

Martin seemed riveted on Jon's hand. Jon felt riveted on the discrete points of contact between them. If he could have more, he could shut his eyes and sink into the touch.

Instead, as Jon swayed, he tipped the mug too far. Careless. Some tea split onto the floor, and he yelped as it got him right in the sock. "Shit!"

Martin sprang back, eyes wide, cheeks smudged red. "Are you okay? Oh god, I, let me— I should get back to it, sorry." The words tumbled out of his mouth as he backed further away. His back collided with the door jam in a way that looked painful, but still, he bolted.

Alone again. Jon set the mug down on his desk and shook out his hand where some of the tea had spilled.

Strangely, it hadn't burned. The tea was still steaming and he _spilled_ it, and now…

Jon leaned back against the desk and examined the ring. He must've been wearing it since… almost since his promotion. He'd completely forgotten it was there.

But when he touched it, the wood grain whorls felt familiar to the soft pads of his fingers. He'd touched it before. He'd used it as he worried, spun it between—

Jon spun the ring, and across his arms, his chest, his back, he _felt it,_ felt a movement like ripples sweeping over his skin under his clothes.

Mouth open in shock, Jon froze. The— the movement did not. Like ripples, it dissipated slowly, the after effects lingering until it faded to nothing.

He held very still for moments after, afraid if he so much as twitched, the sensation would come again.

When it didn't return, Jon brought shaking hands up to grip his jacket. Sliding it off, he unbuttoned the hem of his sleeves and anxiously pulled one back along his forearm.

If he hadn't been looking for it, he would not have noticed it. Jon knew this implicitly. He'd dressed and undressed each day, stood in front of the mirror brushing his teeth, washed in the shower, he had _touched this_ , had felt the desperately appealing smoothness of it under his hands.

But only now did he see the sheer material that coated his palms and encircled his fingers. Flexing his hand, he watched as the fabric pressed flush to his skin. Further down, around his wrist was embroidered with ornate curls of stitching, the sort that looked… well, Jon didn't know much on the topic. It hardly looked like a gran's doily. It was much grander, perfect and precise as a scalpel.

The fingerless glove was thus attached to a sleeve that ran all the way up, under his shirt. Shutting his eyes to brace himself, Jon reached under his collar to check and found the same smooth feeling spanned his shoulder and… a good deal further.

Standing slowly, Jon went to the door, and opened it slowly.

Martin sat on the corner of Tim's desk, his hands wringing over and over, his expression tight as he spoke in a whisper to Sasha and Tim, standing around him.

As soon at the door creaked, everything stopped, and all three of them looked up at Jon.

Jon attempted a smile, and then stopped as he realized that wasn't going to work. "I believe I've had an encounter with an artefact. I could use some help."

* * *

The weave was not concerned, because things were inevitably now. There had been an embarkation point long ago, when it had taken hold of the vessel's arms. With that splinter point passed, there was only inertia now.

And now, there were delicate touches against it. The vessel's fellows touched it with trepidation, examining the sturdy seams, trying to pluck the silk up from the vessel's skin. It didn't work as they hoped.

As they all conferred over the weave and the vessel, one of them managed to tuck the edge of a sharp metal up, the blunt edge of a blade pressing into the vessel's skin, making him hold his breath.

The weave did not know laughter, or it would have cackled in delight.

* * *

Jon leaned back on his hands, staring down the length of his chest as Sasha worked a pair of industrial scissors against the silk. Her brows were tightly furrowed with concentration as she worked the handles, trying to get the silk to catch properly against the jaws of the scissor. But each time, she closed it, and the material simply refused to be cut.

Her hand tried to grip the silk, but there wasn't much give to it, even along the hem across his belly. Jon huffed as her fingers seemed to lose purchase again.

Her other hand was beginning to stroke along Jon's ribs, her modest, tidy nails dragging against the silk that was wrapped so tightly around him. He could feel it floridly and his head tipped back.

"Okay, that's not working," Tim said, and took Sasha by the shoulders, pulling her back away from Jon.

There was a residual hum left over from the contact. Grimacing, Jon sat up and rubbed his face. "Nothing can ever be so simple," he groused.

"Should we let Artefact Storage know we— we have _some_ kind of artefact down here?" Martin asked. He was keeping his hands firmly folded over his chest, which seemed to Jon a very good idea.

Sasha dragged her hair back from her face with a sigh. "I worked with them before. I don't imagine they'll have an easier time getting it off than us." With a pained smile, she admitted, "Best they can do is catalog and track stuff. It's hardly Ghostbusters."

"But we should see what is in their records," Jon said, idly rubbing his clavicle before pulling his shirt back on. The silk shifted and whorled around him, distracting and affecting. Gathering himself, he went on: "Best to see if there's anything about this with Artefact Storage, or in the statements."

"Or online," Tim added. "Search for a creepypasta about a magic ring."

"Oh, _that'll_ narrow it down," Martin said. When Tim glanced at him, he flushed, seeming surprised at his own stroppy tone. "I— I— I mean, there's just a lot out there. Maybe we can find some specific details and go from there? You said you got the ring in a table from a shop. Maybe they have record of who consigned it?"

Nodding slowly, Jon said, "That's worth looking into, certainly. Between the four of us, we should be able to find _something_ useful."

"We'll figure this out, Jon," Martin said, smiling in that pinched way that meant it was an effort, but one he was going to make.

With a plan sorted, they parted ways.

Jon returned to his office eagerly, closing the door as quietly as he could.

His skin felt like firelight, warm and flickering. The remnants of his assistants' attention felt like a physical thing, hanging around his skin.

Slowly, Jon coasted his fingers up from his chest to his collarbone to above. There was a line there, invisible in the dim light of his office but obvious to the touch, where the smooth sensation abruptly ceased and his own skin laid bare.

Circling the desk, Jon sat down and slumped heavily on his forearms. There were things for him to do, research to begin, but god, what a fucking mess he'd found himself in. He pinched the bridge of his nose, between his eyes, trying to get handle on it.

As he sat there, half-draped over his desk, he felt a sudden firming around his chest. A squeeze of pressure began under his ribs and rose to encase his chest, pulling tight. Jon gasped, feeling the resistance of the silk against his breath.

For a second, he thought it was going to kill him, grip him so tightly he broke.

But two lines framing his spine, running from his shoulder blades to the small of his back, _pulled,_ the strength of a wire drawing Jon upright. The bodice clenched him tightly, and Jon gasped again as he arched his back, his shoulders coming to rest against the back of his chair.

And that was where it held him. His heart raced as he waited for the next action, but it seemed content to keep him upright.

Slowly, Jon relaxed. Or, he relaxed as much as he could while wearing a magical silk that apparently had opinions about his sitting posture.

Gathering himself, he pulled his laptop closer and opened it. There was no reason not to get started, the unrelenting gentle pressure around his chest be damned.

* * *

Now that the vessel was aware of it, he was even less eager to sleep.

Through the evening, the vessel paced up and down his home. More than once, he took off his soft sleep shirt to look at the weave, only to button right back up and begin pacing again, his arms wrapped tight around himself.

His fragile heart thumped anxiously in his chest, and the weave felt it through every thread of its being.

It also felt all the shimmering expectant energy it had collected through the day, waiting eagerly to be spent on more expansion. So this recalcitrance had to be dealt with.

The vessel was somewhat predictable. He enjoyed pressure, and the weave was able to provide plenty. Starting with a slight tensing across his body, slowly pressing down until the span of its grasp was a pleasant squeeze.

The effect came on strong, as he finally relented and sat down in his favorite armchair. As the weave continued to grip him, his eyes began to slide close, and he drew up his legs to tuck in alongside his body, curling up.

The position might have harmed him, muscles compacted and hurting from the curl. The weave held everything at bay, and waited for the vessel to sleep.

Once he was deep in slumber, it stirred against his skin, and the threads began to reach further down, eager to control more of their shared body, eager to reach the next anchor point.

The silk wove further, expanding slightly to take over the slight curve of his hips, dragging itself over new skin. The give of the flesh here was greater, and the weave tightened itself, gathering his body resolutely into its edges. It assumed the vessel would enjoy this taut sensation, as it encased the softness of his arse and continued to make its new foothold.

A few times, the sensation of silk wrapping around the vessel was too much, and he began to stir.

Another tight squeeze relaxed him each time, coaxing him back into a deep calm, keeping him well out of the way for this delicate part of the process.

It swept over sensitive skin and coarse hair, laying a panel with swirled filigree against the pubis and upward, to join with the hem around the hips. When the connection was made, the weave thickened, spread to seize the vessel and complete this new unity.

The threads interwove, and everything pulled together, sealing and locking into place, secure in its new home.

As he slept on, the weave spun beautiful shapes into itself, leaving its vessel to get his rest.

* * *

The time from waking up to panicking was about two and a half seconds. Jon stirred from his sleep, rolled back against the chair, and then felt it.

The silk had… grown, spread, whatever the proper terminology for it was. He'd hoped that it would be content to have the entirety of his torso and his arms, but as he moved, he felt the new pull, the new contact that ran down from his hips to lay flush between his legs, rather _rudely_ ignoring the privacy of his boxers to meet along his back.

It was like wearing a very weird, invasive silk swimsuit, with arms sewn on for some reason.

Jon was upset. In the comfort of his own apartment, he cursed a blue streak, kicking down his pajamas to his knees and shoving down his pants.

The bodice has enveloped him, leaving only his legs free. Gleaming smooth panels covered his crotch, making a surprisingly flat surface spanning up to his waist. Amid the opal material was more embroidered swirls, two ornamental lines seeming to stretch from the cuts of his pelvic bone to… point down.

It was pretty.

Jon reached down and tried to work his fingers under the hem, to pull or rip or _something._

The edges of the— the suit, they laid preternaturally flat against his body, and digging his nails into the sides didn't budge it. He couldn't coax the flat hem up, and grit his teeth as he pressed harder, movements more furious.

If anything, it felt like the entire bodice was tightening around him, a wave rolling along his spine startling him into arching his back. It swept around his sides, under his ribs, and down along his belly to crash down.

The tingling sensations shivered through his groin and remained there, tight and shifting, pressing, moving against him.

He thought to reach down and press his hands to it, in the hopes to— to control the feeling.

Then, tension pulled along his shoulders, a sharp tug of what felt like a million threads working in concert. With a cry, his arms lifted, over his head, and were held to the back of his chair.

"Oh shit," Jon said, a tremble working into his voice. His heels dug into the chair as he tried to move (where? away from himself somehow?), propel himself up. That attempt was soon dashed too as the bodice firmed around him like the boning of a corset, forcing his back to bend.

He was held like a drawn chord, wanting to move, to do something, only to be pinned.

As his chest heaved with his gasps, the entire suit whorled and shifted around him, the cadence rippling down, focused on the taut material pressing snugly into his labia. It was a unique feeling, almost like touching himself through his pants, but for all the ways it was completely different.

Still, the silk was sleek and flowing as it moved, and entirely against his will, Jon felt tension growing his his abdomen, a wetness beginning to seep into the suit as it stroked and fluttered against him. Pressing his head back against the seat, Jon tried desperately to swallow back the groan pushing its way up his throat.

Alone in his apartment, he listened to himself start to lose control, hitching breaths releasing as moans while the silk stroked into him harder and harder. The pressure rose, and Jon's legs tensed. Without meaning to, he rocked his hips into the phantom touch, panting. It felt so much like someone was there with him.

Rolling his head forward, Jon stared down into his own empty lap, at his legs instinctively parting around the wet glide. There was nothing, not even a dent in the suit to betray what was happening underneath.

Fear and arousal collided in his head, and Jon rutted helplessly against the air as he came, and came, and came, the suit dragging it out as he shook apart, crying out wordlessly.

When it stopped, it was all at once. The bend in the bodice, the sleeves holding him up, they ceased all at once, and left Jon to slump exhausted against the arm of the chair. His legs pressed together, rubbing as he tried to regain himself against the onslaught of post-orgasm lassitude that tried to settle into his limbs.

Shutting his eyes, Jon pressed a hand to his face, mortified at the flush in his cheeks.

On the table next to him, his watch alarm went off.

He was going to be late for work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no excuse except that i'm having a lot of fun
> 
> thanks mimsy for the guidance on this one. it's your fault, pal.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a new problem.

There seemed to be a new problem every day now, Jon thought viciously as he idly stroked his stomach, frowning down at a reference book he'd gotten from upstairs.

It was becoming difficult to focus on his reading. Earlier, he'd tried to have a scone from the tray in the breakroom, only for it to become impossible to swallow, his appetite gone, his nausea spiking. Then one bite he managed to fully chew wound up spit into the bin under his desk, along with the rest of the scone.

It seemed a very bad sign, he thought. Because he was… wanting. Not hungry yet, but as he sat at his desk, his hands curled open and shut, grasping at nothing. He was starting to ache.

Not good.

As he stroked against the smooth plane of his stomach, hand tucked between the buttons of his shirt, there was a tap at the door. Before Jon could say anything, Tim let himself in.

"Okay, so," he started without prompt as Jon yanked his hand out of his shirt, "the shop says they never had that ring on record, just the table, and they're going to try to get us a name for who handed it over to them. So far, no dice, because all the records are in a bunch of bloody spiral notebooks kept by the elderly shop owner, and she had to dig up the right one."

"It's always something," Jon murmured, nodding. "I thought Martin was looking into it?"

"He's comparing the photos we took of your—" Tim blinked, "of the thing to online records, in case its some old spooky magic he can narrow down. Last I saw, he was running some French book through Google Translate and muttering about lace edging."

Hopefully something would come of it. Jon nodded, rubbing his jaw.

Tim stared for a moment before nudging the office door shut. Stepping to the corner of the desk, he bent down, lowering his voice. "So… you alright? 'Cause I gotta say, you're looking a little weird."

"Weird how?" Jon asked blandly.

"Well, its the first time in weeks you've not been hauling your luggage under your eyes, but you're still all…" Tim seesawed his hands. "You look like a piano could fall on you ACME-style and you'd say thank you for the privilege."

It wasn't an inaccurate assessment. Licking his lips, Jon said, "It's worse. The— the silk spread again overnight, and I've been having trouble eating."

"Spread?" Tim looked Jon over, his eyes on Jon's neck and wrists.

"Yes. Quite aggressively." Shifting in his chair, he sighed. "It now terminates about…" He tapped his thigh, a few inches from his hip. "There. But I— I think it's lopsided? Spreading down one side."

Brow furrowing, Tim bent, his gaze narrow on Jon. "That… can't be right. Why only one side?"

 _I could show him,_ Jon thought idly. As soon as it struck him, the thought returned, louder. _You could show him._

Standing, Jon gave Tim a severe look, trying to wordlessly impart how serious the situation was. Then, he unbuttoned his trousers and eased them down his hips, leaving them to rest around his thighs.

He hadn't bothered with pants today. The silk seemed to be handling it well enough on its own.

Tim circled around, looking at Jon closely. "Looks like an, uh, an even cut. Is that uncomfortable?"

"I wish it were," Jon muttered. "I believe this side is expanding." He dragged his fingers along the hem around his right leg. "It seems to be very… bold, now."

The brush of Tim's thumb against the skin under the hem of the silk sunk into Jon like a depth charge. Tim said something, about the edge of the silk and its relative length, whatever. Jon didn't hear any of it, his head lolling suddenly as a simple touch warmed him deep in his bones, centering on his belly, igniting.

Oh. Now he was hungry.

His hand clamped tight around Tim's wrist, and he _meant_ to push his hand away, he really did.

Instead, his arm pulled, and he coaxed Tim's palm up to run along his hip to his waist. Jon shuddered all over, teeth biting into his lower lip as he swallowed down a longing sound.

A breath of air rushed out of Tim, hot against Jon's stomach. Another hand rested on Jon's other waist, Tim's fingers digging into silk-covered flesh.

"Christ, boss," Tim said, sounding ragged. He leaned in further, his forehead resting on Jon's belly. Pressing in, Tim dragged his face against the silk, a groan unlocking from his throat. _"Fuck,_ you feel so good."

He did. That was the problem, he _did_ feel so good, the miasma of discontent washing away as Tim mouthed at his navel and rubbed Jon's body. Finally he felt the worry melt away and reached down to grip Tim's shoulders tightly.

For a second, Tim seemed to pull away, and Jon clenched his shirt. But Tim only rose and put his body against Jon's, pressing him back against the edge of the desk.

The desire to part his legs and make room for Tim to get closer was intense, but waylaid by his trousers still around his thighs. When he reached down to do something about it, Tim grabbed Jon's wrists ( _fuck,_ that felt good) and stopped him. "Nuh uh. Legs together." He assisted in the matter, groping at Jon's thighs, drawing them together. "Yeah, that's beautiful."

"Please, I need more, come here," Jon whispered fervently, trying again to pull him in. His skin was buzzing, the sensation going from wonderful to too much at a rapid rate. His face was hot, so he pressed it against Tim's neck, groaning.

There was the sound of Tim's belt coming undone, the zip of his trousers. Then he pulled Jon's hips into position and pressed his dick between Jon's thighs. "Ffffuck, that's it," he said, voice dropping to something low and gravelly. "Fuck, that feels so fucking good." His dick slid in, rubbing along the flat panel of silk hugging Jon's groin. "You're so smooth."

Gripping his shoulders, Jon arched into Tim's body, trying to line up perfectly for the desperate frottage. Being sealed up in the suit didn't seem to _matter,_ Jon felt the silk's whorls moving, everything tightening around him, bolstering his own efforts to stand there and give Tim a tight sleek place to fuck.

A hand pressed into the small of Jon's back as Tim rocked harder into Jon's clenched thighs, his eyes screwed shut, mouth parted around winded noises.

Nodding along, Jon let his head loll enough to look down, seeing where Tim was gliding against him, where his hands gripped Jon tight. He already knew how nice it felt to touch the suit. Having someone else touch it was orders of magnitude better.

Tim's hips began to stutter as he came. Simultaneously, the silk hugged Jon tightly, hard enough to make him gasp, and carry him along in the tangled waves of sensation, coming in tandem with Tim.

And god, he felt so much _better_ now.

Drifting on the hazy feeling, Jon stood there, slumped against the desk as Tim redressed. A firm hand stroked up Jon's side, along his ribs.

He shivered, letting out a pleased noise.

"I— let me, I'm gonna clean you up," Tim said.

"Mmhm," Jon hummed, rolling his shoulders. Down his back, the bodice hummed in tune with him, and his eyes slid closed.

As he relaxed into the afterglow like a well-fed cat, Jon felt Tim stroke between his thighs with something. Maybe napkins. "So it, it's, uh, definitely having an effect on— on all of us."

Jon nodded along, eyes still closed. "Mh, yes. Feels better." He dragged a hand down his face. "Not hungry anymore."

Tim paused for a second, then said, "That's… weird."

Jon let out a non-committal sound, and collapsed into his chair as soon as Tim was finished tidying him up. "Let me know how the, ah." Jon blinked for a moment, sifting through his mind for the words. "The search goes. For the past owners."

"Sure," Tim said, and hovered for a moment. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Jon said, waving him off. "Back to it, Tim, thank you."

* * *

The weave knew this was the time for the vessel to come into his own, and expected resistance.

Sometimes, vessels did not take to the joining very well, and the famine of energy became a problem quickly. More than one had completely fallen apart, and left the weave an empty ring once more.

But this vessel knew the hunger of the skin like few others, and fell into step like an talented dancer.

And perhaps soon the weave could direct him into a perfect pirouette. Their shared body would be perfect for it.

For now, its vessel worked, adjusting to the new demands of their body. Touch soaked into the weave greedily, and it continued to spin down one of the vessel's legs. It was difficult not to overextend, to take too much skin too quickly, with completion so near on the horizon.

Only days later, the weave languished while its vessel ached for more. He needed to be touched, to be appreciated, to have hands on his body, needed it to _live._

It was little surprise when another of his meetings with his fellows turned. The weave remembered this one's hesitance, how it covered an intense desire. It was only a matter of time before they caught another tactile taste with no one around to interfere.

The force of it was not accounted for, but certainly welcome. The vessel was pushed flat against the desk, the full weight of her bearing down on him, as if he would dare to move.

He wouldn't, the weave made sure, drawing his arms up over his head. As the silk enthralled them, they bore down on his chest with their palms. Their legs straddled his thigh, by now adorned with silk to his knee. The smooth texture excited them, and they indulged with it, _used_ the vessel laid out before them with abandon. They were wet as they ground their labia into the weave, letting out sharp, almost pained cries as it worked against them.

The vessel was still new, and easily overwhelmed but the power he gathered from this. His role was a lax, beautiful facilitator, secondary to their pleasure.

Still, the weave rewarded him for his obedience, pressing into where he was wet and vulnerable himself, matching the hard weight of the person pressing onto him.

He was terrible predictable, in how he fell apart to firm pressure.

When they were through with him and left hastily, the weave was there to hold him through the aftershocks. Keeping his arms draped back, the weave let its vessel drift into a doze.

He was doing so well.

* * *

Logically speaking, Jon knew what was happening was highly unusual and likely very bad.

He sat in his chair, one leg pulled up onto his lap. His entire body felt horribly lopsided at the moment; one of his legs was wrapped in a long span of the silk, all the way down to his ankle. It was hard to resist sitting there at his desk and just stroking it, feeling the gliding sensation that came along with touching it even through his trousers. It was an eminently distracting sensation, lush and compelling his attention.

His other leg was bare. Or, no, not _bare._ He had his trousers and socks like a civilized person. But the silk had only reached down his thigh, and the difference was incredibly stark. More than once, Jon had staggered into something as he walked through the archives. And god, taking the stairs was a travesty, with Jon gripping the railing for balance and trotting down the steps like a newborn lamb.

It wasn't that he was eager for his left leg to be… _finished,_ but the dissonance was making even basic tasks like walking through the Institute troublesome.

Jon pressed his palms against his cheeks and stroked slowly. That wasn't even the problem. Or, it was _a_ problem, but the situation was rife with them at this point.

The true problem was how he was becoming accustomed to dealing with the ache in his body, now that he knew how it was quenched. There was no need for food or drink, his body remained sated and humming with pleasant energy… so long as he indulged the desires of the suit.

And it _was_ the suit. Jon had never, not before, not like this. Sex was an occasional indulgence that happened when the stars aligned and the moon was in the correct house and Jon was in the exact, precise mood needed.

But now, with the silk enveloping him so much, the ache had settled in. It seemed fairly obvious to Jon after his encounters with both Tim and Sasha that the correlation was causation; the silk was fueled by… contact.

And so was Jon, now.

The feeling of his own skin— or, the silk, always the silk— was making it hard to concentrate. As he glanced at his watch, he saw how late it was and winced. In another time, he would have been relieved, to have perhaps missed the worst of the rush on the tube.

But now, Jon mostly walked home. It was much longer, but safer than riding in a full compartment with people all around him, brushing against him…

It was a recipe for utter disaster. So Jon sighed and climbed out of his chair, grabbing his jacket. Walking would be fine.

Leaving his office, Jon paused, surprised one of the desks still had the light on.

Martin was nursing a cup of tea and staring balefully at his laptop.

Jon checked his watch again, in case he'd mistaken the time. He had not. "Martin, what are you doing here so damned late?"

Stiffening, Martin spun around. "Oh! You, are you finally leaving?"

"I could ask you much the same," Jon said.

"Oh, well, I was…" Martin gnawed his bottom lip for a moment. "I didn't think you should be left alone, in case something happened? Something _else_ anyway?"

"I hardly think anything worse can befall me," Jon groused.

Martin winced and nodded slowly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Just… you didn't have to stay. I would have left hours ago if I knew you were out here." Or at the very least, kicked Martin out.

"I don't mind!" He stood gingerly, and stretched out his arms. "I just, yanno, worry." He slumped and gave Jon a weary smile. "Why… why do you leave so late?"

Jon bowed his head slightly. "Avoiding crowds."

He thought he would have to explain further, but recognition immediately flared in Martin's eyes. "Oh. Oh god, yeah, that… makes sense. Having people touch you must, uh." He stopped, sharply.

Curiosity got the better of him. Jon asked, "What is it like? From your side."

Turning, Martin picked up his coat and pulled it on, not looking at Jon. "It's… hard to describe. It's like accidentally brushing against the— the loveliest thing in the world and having it invite you in." He sighed. "That's not specific, I know."

It wasn't. Still Jon wrapped his arms around himself. All over, the suit pulsed in a ripple, and the silk panels against his sides compressed. It felt like a hug. "Explains some things."

Martin seemed uncertain for a moment, looking to Jon and away again. "We all care about you. And we're still looking for a way out. Until then, anything you need, anything at all." He sucked in a breath and then said, all at once, "Can-I-walk-you-home?"

Drawn out of the tight, warm feeling, Jon looked at Martin. "That's not necessary."

"I know," Martin said. "I just want to be sure you get there safely."

"And what about _you_ being safe?" Jon countered. His fingers gripped his own arms tightly. "I, I know that being around me, it's…"

"It's fine," Martin assured him. "I, you know, I know the risks. I still want you to be okay."

Funny, that he throat felt tight. The silk hadn't spread there. Nodding, Jon said, "It's a bit of a walk. We should be going."

He couldn't pretend there wasn't some comfort in having someone he knew there, as they ascended out of the archives and left the building together. There were so many anonymous, unknown people on the street. In the past, Jon had taken great lengths to dodge them, to keep so much as his shoulders from bumping into another person, and it had gotten him some looks.

With Martin, he had someone else there at least, who could brush against Jon and not immediately turn to grasp at him. Someone who knew what was going on. Periodically, Martin still nudged Jon, helping him step around other people, but it was at least with knowledge aforethought.

And, on a very basic level, Jon liked having someone to do that. To touch him.

As they walked, Martin told him about how much he'd been learning about lace. That the embellishments on Jon's suit seemed similar to Alençon lace from France, which could help narrow things down, if Tim ever managed to get the owner's name from the antique shop. Martin even took out his phone and showed Jon pictures of the more mundane lace, which was very beautiful and did remind him of what he saw adorning the edges of his own body now.

Martin's arm wound up draped gently around Jon's shoulders. That was very nice, and he couldn't help shifting to walk against Martin's side.

At Jon's building, he paused, and considered Martin, who managed to reluctantly pry his arm off from around Jon and take a step back. But his pupils were enormous, and his posture seemed brittle as Jon stood at the door to watch him.

His skin felt almost numb from how much it wanted more. The hunger was intensifying just standing there looking at Martin.

Jon opened his mouth to say something professional and courteous. A thank you for his help, an assurance he'd see Martin on Monday, an encouragement for him to run while he still could.

Before he managed, the threads around his wrists tightened, and Jon lifted a hand to stroke Martin's cheek.

Martin's eyes fluttered shut, and he just broke, fell into Jon, pushing him back against the building. His hands flat against Jon's back, stroking.

Jon arched like a cat and buried his face in Martin's neck. One silk palm continued to pet Martin's cheek, and he felt Martin shudder at the feeling.

They were still out in the street.

"Inside," Jon groaned. "Come— come on, inside."

* * *

The longing in this fellow's hands flavored the energy that poured into the weave. They wanted the vessel so much more intensely, their touch was not just grasping and clinging, but reverent. A different taste of power flowing through the seams and threads.

The vessel kissed his companion, hauling them in closely, needing little enticement to stroke their tongues together, to grip them tight, to lure them further into his home. He was eager to bare the weave, shedding his own clothes to the floor, pulling his companion in to touch the suit.

They both sparked against the contact, moaning and grasping for more.

The vessel was pushed to sit on the edge of the bed. His companion mouthed at his neck, his chest, stroking everywhere they could reach before falling down to their knees.

Ah, _supplication._ Perfect. The weave whorled in anticipation to see what this person would offer, and what they would take.

They traced the designs and stitching of the weave with interest, even leaned in to explore the texture with their lips. It was adoring. It was also deferential in a way the weave could glut itself on. Yes, it wanted to be touched by greedy, desperate, needful hands. But even more, it was to be admired, worshipped. Finally, someone understood the majesty of the weave and its vessel, how beautiful they were.

The weave needed more. It guided the vessel to stroke his companion's hair, to pull them closer, and to wrap his legs around their shoulders.

The hard groan from the supplicant fanned over the inner thighs. They didn't hesitate much, drawn in so lovingly with silk around their head, squeezing insistently. They knelt closer, their hands coming up to curl bracingly around thighs, and their mouth found the smooth, warm junction between.

They wanted to feast on the vessel; the weave knew this feeling, and let them. The silk thinned, loosened, letting the curl of their tongue impress on the vessel. Made him feel it as intensely as if it were tongue-to-skin. No, _more._ The weave imparted the desire and wonder of the supplicant into the vessel.

Fingers fisted tightly in the supplicant's hair as the vessel shuddered and sobbed from the waves of sensation. This only urged the supplicant on, eating at him, pushing their tongue further up, silk-sheathed, into him.

Orgasm crashed through the vessel, threatening to loosen their grip. The weave helped, keeping him close, bending him forward over the supplicant, gathering them in closer with their legs.

As expected, the supplicant continued, as if starved. Their teeth pressed against the hard, hooded nub, their fingers taking over for their tongue as they pushed in, curled.

Another orgasm left the weave flushed with almost more power than it could hold. It was appreciative of the work.

Even if the vessel was dazed and supine from the exertion, the weave knew better than to not reward such devoted attention.

Pulling the threads needed, the weave dragged him up, off the bed to drape heavily over his companion. They needed no encouragement to press their mouths together.

The vessel was too overcome to manage much. So with more pulling and direction, the weave drew his hands down, to stoke silk against skin. The supplicant was _very_ fond of soft, smooth hands; the weave had noticed.

It didn't take long, before the weave could relax, and leave both of them panting against the floor.

Even then, after everything, the supplicant continued to idly stroke the vessel's back, the touch bright and gleaming with emotion.

The weave was already full of energy, and so left this alone, left them to their entangled bodies and catching breaths.

* * *

For once, Jon decided to take the weekend off like he was meant to.

There were a few reasons for this. One of them being Martin didn't go in on weekends unless he had to, and so Jon woke up to his assistant sleeping soundly next to him, his eyes peaceably shut, even as his hand seemed to stroke Jon's hip entirely of its own accord.

The weirdness of that wasn't even a blip on the radar at this point. And it always felt nice when someone touched the suit. Jon sighed and thought with some disdain that he was being— being conditioned to enjoy the petting.

It was very enjoyable.

Anyway, Martin stayed for breakfast and hovered terrible to ensure Jon was okay before settling. They sat on the sofa, and Martin got out his phone to take new pictures of the silk's expansion. Jon discovered for the first time that his foot was ticklish as he jerked away from Martin's hold.

He apologized, a little shame-faced. Martin simply smiled and tried again, being more careful as he took photos of the lace trim.

When Martin eventually left, Jon stood around his apartment awhile, frowning at the middle distance.

He could've gotten dressed now and gone to the archives, picked up on his work. But therein was the other reason Jon took the weekend off.

He was… a little tired. Call it old-fashioned weariness, or call it his adaptation to his new supernatural feeding style, he didn't feel the urge to go in.

… God, was he a sort of touch vampire now? Or, he glared at the ring of his hand and considered the notion he might have to start researching _succubi_ or _incubi_ or whatever. The idea was almost humorous. Him, of all people, feeding on physical contact and sex and all that.

As he settled into the reality of not going to work, Jon also realized he was just… standing around in the silk and nothing else. Had been the entire morning into afternoon as Martin had been over. He shut his bathroom door to look in his mirror.

He was… almost taken aback by the sight. Sure, he checked on the suit periodically, but usually by pushing up his trousers or taking off his shirt. He never really stopped and looked at it in its entirety.

If it were an entity capable of thought— which for no reason he could explain, Jon _sort of_ suspected it was— then it had decided at some point to be less subtle. The opalescent hue of the silk was less transparent now, and looked almost like Jon had been painted with a shimmery material.

Almost. As he stood there, he could see where the fine gossamer became silk panels, framing his chest, his sides, along his arms, between his legs. There were places where his body was sort of drawn in by persistent pressure, and other places where he thought his angles were less sharp, less harsh.

His mouth went dry with the thought that landed on him. That he looked arresting, even to himself. He saw himself and reached down to stroke the curve of his hip, because it looked good in the reflection.

Felt good too.

Jon angrily wrenched his hand away and padded off to do something useful. He hadn't eaten in some time and the fridge could do with cleaning out. So, he buried himself in that task, trying to ignore how sleek he felt as he stalked around in nothing but the suit.

Martin called him beautiful. Somehow, that thought seemed too sharp to hold. And yet, he kept returning to it.

He was looking through his bookshelf in case he _did_ happen to have a book on the sort of folklore he needed, when he noticed the tightening around his leg.

Below his knee, the suit was extending itself. He could _see it._

Grabbing his phone, Jon turned on his bedside lamp and sat against the headboard. Pointing the camera, he squinted at the suit.

It was utterly baffling to watch, like seeing a piece of movie CGI unfolding in vivid reality before him. The edge of the suit grew trailing threads that glowed in the light, and each one looped up and through the others, laying themselves to closely together, it took a moment of watching to even tell that the silk was extending itself.

Back in his office he had a book on weaving. If he kept it with him, he might be able to tell if it was lampas or satin or maybe karamiori. Seeing the diagrams in the book hadn't been enough for him to recognize it as it was happening.

After getting a few minutes of video, Jon put his phone aside and stroked the smooth, completed sections of his legs. Of the silk on his legs. It already felt taut to his body. Hell, more than; there was compression against his thighs, a constant that made him want to touch even more. The panels felt amazing against the backs of his fingers. Tight and strong.

But also somehow malleable, it seemed.

It was not lost on Jon that Martin had been able to push his— his tongue and fingers up into Jon, that the smooth unbroken plain of the silk had bent to him. That was very hard to not think on extensively, especially sitting there alone with his hands already stroking himself, the suit.

With nothing in the way, no distractions, Jon could feel the silk against his hips and abdomen slowly start to squeeze. The fabric pulled firm against his body, tightening by degrees. When he expected it to let go and release again, it just cinched tighter, until Jon bent his legs against the bed, fingers pressing into his belly, as if he could quell it somehow.

But there was nothing he could do but take what it gave him. Hitching, he moved almost senselessly, falling to his side on the bed, nails dragging against the suit as it fucking toyed with him.

"What, what, what do you _want?"_ he grit out. A ripple stroked over the plane of his back, and Jon knew this thing had _some_ level of sentience, to try to gentle him so.

Shaking, he tried to get up on his hands and knees, tension pinging through his body. As he rose up, it clenched his arse and groin like a vice, so intensely that Jon let out a breath like he'd been punched, and lost his balance, falling on his face.

His hand slid down, and Jon wasn't certain if it was him or the suit. But his fingers traced the panel over his folds, wondering if— if it'd let him in as well.

Folding one arm under his head, he pressed against the silk, staring dumbstruck at the headboard as he felt the silk let him in, the material smoothing up over his mons and then down, deeper.

It felt like nothing else Jon had ever felt. Nothing like the sporadic nights when he got himself off in the hopes it would help him sleep. The texture of his nails and fingers was not there, just a slick textile push. His eyes unfocused as he explored the sensation, the oddity, his fingers coaxing the silk to stroke him inside.

He fitted just one finger inside at first, caught up in the feeling. Then, it was very hard not to ease back and explore how it felt against his clit, the exact pressure he wanted with a new texture.

The suit pulled tight around him, and Jon let out a groan. Too loud. Much too loud, it was too early in the evening for his neighbors to be asleep. He bent his head and shoved his face into the pillow, biting a corner of it, just in time for the suit to press hard into the small of his back and make him groan again, it felt so fucking good.

There was a heady excitement and nervousness in him as he rubbed his folds and caught the short shaft between his fingers. It was him, obviously, but felt so strange, but so good he couldn't imagine stopping, not until his hips started to rock, his groans muffled, that sudden wash of pleasure hitting him.

He could have stopped there.

Instead, he pushed three fingers to rub against his labia more, groaning again. Was it the suit? It must've been. His muscles were still twitching from the aftershocks as he groaned loudly.

His other arm, under his head, pushed against the bed, forcing him up. The pillow was forced out of his mouth, and he nearly toppled over, unbalanced, before whipping up his other hand to brace himself, again on all fours.

His hand wasn't even wet. God, why did that make it seem so much more indecent?

The suit clenched around him again, continuing his ministrations without him with heavy rocking glides against his folds. Jon nearly choked as he tried not to moan out loud, mortified at how much he wanted to just let go and fall apart.

He settled for biting his lips so hard, he feared he'd bleed.

Then, something new happened.

There was a luxurious slide along his shoulders, meeting at his neck and running up the length of it. The sensation was familiar, clean and smooth as silk rose to lap at his jawline.

It was too close, he couldn't find an angle to see, to look down at it. He could only feel it as the silk crested his jaw, and overtook his face, slipping up to wrap around his face, hooking over his nose, his mouth covered.

Stunned, Jon did nothing but wait there, until the silk snapped taut and pressed as firmly over his nose and mouth as it did the rest of his body.

For a terrified second, Jon thought, _I can't breathe._

But he could. The silk breathed around his sharp inhales, filling his lungs. He forced one arm free of the suit's grip (or was he released from it?) and dragged his fingers over the mask that had slipped up his neck and over him.

The hem wrapped around him was firm and flush over his nose, down across the apple of his cheeks and then wrapped around under his ears, to the top of his spine. Plucking at it didn't move it. Trying to find a handhold, Jon blew out his mouth hard, in hopes to move the silk enough to grab it.

Instead, it snapped tighter, forcing his mouth closed.

Down his body, the silk grew tired of long strokes against him and instead pushed suddenly _in,_ making Jon cry out.

It was muffled. Quiet. The silk fucked into him and he was kept quiet for it by the mask.

Jon whimpered, unsure what to do, wet and hot to his core, with no idea what he was supposed to do now except take it.

And so he did, held in position as the suit fucked him harder and harder. It's girth seemed to slowly widen, as if testing to see what Jon could handle. It sank in deeper, until it felt like he was filled to bursting.

He sobbed, effectively muzzled.

The suit moved, propelling him to roll over onto his back, his legs drawing up to the ceiling. The rhythmic fucking slowed, just pushing all the way in, flooding him, opening him up with steadily increasing pressure.

The silk had finished reaching his ankle, he noticed as his legs filled his vision. Both were covered in the shifting, demanding material.

As his attention focused, the strands grew again from the hems, and began to loop and dance again. It was fast now, as the silk hooked over the heels of his feet, inched up to press firmly into the arches, and closed around his curled toes.

The final threads tucked themselves away, and Jon could feel everything seem to lock into place, from his toes to the backs of his thighs, everything thickening, the silk squeezing him, rippling over him as if excited, victorious.

It pushed into him until he came again, entirely full, entirely covered, his body enveloped.

His legs flopped down to the bed. The mask slipped down his face, under his chin, and seemed to retract into his collar. Opening his mouth, he sucked in mouthfuls of air.

Jon shut his eyes and sank into exhausted darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still having a lot of fun
> 
> and yeah, i added one more chapter to this


End file.
